There's a guy I see almost every day in passing. He's cock-eyed, like Marty Feldman. And I always look at his wrong eye. I wonder if he notices.

The following conversation took place on May 6, 2006. The time: 7:17 p.m. The place: El Chorro Lodge, Phoenix, Arizona. The people: A woman named Cecilia who prefers to be called Cece, and a Somewhat Rational Human Being (me).

The conversation is written as recalled. Though alcohol was involved, memory of the conversation remains vivid because, well, see for yourself.

Cece: “Oh my god, did you just say illegal immigration?”

RHB: “Well, we mentioned it. It’s pretty much the topic of conversation now.”

“It’s so huge. And it’s so messed up. I can’t believe where this country is headed.”

“Yeah, it is a pretty big mess. It has to be addressed at some point, yet everyone wants to dance around it.”

“Exactly, and I don’t get it. The answer is so obvious. I mean, all you have to do is listen to the tadio. Like Hannity and Colmes. Why aren’t people paying attention?”

“I’ll admit I don’t spent a lot of time on talk radio, especially-“

“Well you should because they’ve figured it out and I totally agree. It’s what I’ve been saying all along and I just love hearing them talk about it. You get rid of the illegals. That’s it. End of story. You catch them, you ship them back to where they came from, and this country gets back to where it should be.”

“And how do you propose catching all these people, because there’s-“

“See, that’s just it. This country has become so weak. No one wants to tell it like it is anymore. No one wants to do what’s right because it may hurt some people. But it’s pretty obvious who the illegals are, it’s not like we have to hunt for them. They’re all over.”

“So what do you propose, just stop everyone and ask for papers, because there’s this thing we have called the Constitution.”

“Oh my god, that’s what someone always says, and it’s just such an excuse. The Constitution was written to protect Americans, not people who come here and get free health care and free schools and free everything. They are draining our counry.”

“I guess you would, what, put up checkpoints on the roads and check everyone?”

“Sure, if that’s what it took.”

“Then there’s a problem with illegal search and seizure. The Constitution protects us from that, saying specifically the police or whoever can’t go around stopping people unless there is probably cause.”

“They can stop me anytime, I have no problem with that. Especially if it meant they’d catch more illegals and ship them back, or put them in prison.”

“If you put them in prison, they’d wind up costing taxpayers more than they do now, and they wouldn’t be able to pay taxes at all, which most do.”

“Look, that’s beside the point. Ship them home, prison, whatever. Just deal with them because they shouldn’t be here. Like Sheriff Joe is doing, go round them up and throw them in jail. He has the right idea.”

“If Sheriff Joe knocks on your door and asks you if you were illegal, that’d be OK?”

“Of course.”

“What if he demanded papers to prove it?”

“He should. And I’d show him and that’d be that.”

“But a lot people don’t have those papers lying around.”

“All it would be is a birth certificate, passport, anything. Everyone has those.”

“I’d disagree, and I don’t want someone knocking on my door asking for my ID. I’d ask them why they were there, and then slam the door in their face.”

“Then that just means you have something to hide.”

“No, it means I believe in our Constitutional rights.”

“Oh, that again. If we had the guts to do what’s really right, we wouldn’t have this problem. Because we need to be honest here.”

“How so?”

“Of course they wouldn’t go around knocking on everyone’s door. Just the people who are pretty obviously illegal.”

“Oh, you mean Mexicans. That’s racial profiling.”

“Not just Mexicans. Brazilians, Latin Americans, wherever they’re from. And it’s not profiling, it’s dealing with the obvious.”

“How is it obvious?”

“If they don’t speak English, if all they know is Spanish. People who are here legally learn English. If you’re going to spend any time in this country, you learn English. You only speak Spanish, it’s pretty obvious.”

“You propose going out on the streets, stopping everyone who looks, what, like a Latin American, and see if they speak English. And if they don’t, your arrest them.”

“That’s it. And this country is too gutless to do that.”

“And you don’t think the Constitution has anything to do with it.”

“Please, we’ve been there. Illegals don’t deserve that kind of protection anymore than they deserve to be here taking advantage of the things that should be for Americans only.”

“What if it turns out someone arrested is here legally?”

“Then you let them go and tell them they need to carry proof wherever they go.”

“Well, why not just make this a police state? Anyone can be stopped for anything, and if you’re arrested you have to prove your innocence?”

“That works for me.”

“Seriously?”

“Absolutely.”

“So if there aren’t enough police, we should bring in the militia. Establish curfews. Monitor everyone at all times.”

“I, for one, wouldn’t have a problem with that. It would make this nation strong again like we were after World War II, when people respected and feared us and other countries couldn’t do whatever they wanted because they’d have to reckon with us later.”

“Wow, I don’t even know what to say to that. Except that I have to go to the bathroom.”

For mind-numbing activities, it’s tough to top five hours of watching kids run. We can wrap wet towels around the heads of suspected terrorists and only a few Amnesty International types complain. But if you were to show a live broadcast of a five-hour track meet for kids to the captive audience at Guantanamo, you can bet a few generals would be busted down to corporals, or whatever it is generals are busted down to.

It is a cold blustery night at Higley High School in Gilbert. Very unusual for April in Arizona, so plenty of people (that’d be parents) are shivering in shorts and T-shirts.

I entered Bryson in just three events – softball throw, the 100-meter dash and the 4x100 relay. That last event is really why Bryson wanted to be here tonight, to run with his friends. Maybe they weren’t the fastest kids at the meet, or the second or third and probably fourth or fifth fastest, but competitive against the sixth and seventh fastest, that is if they got a good start and a couple of runners fell down, but it wasn’t about winning. It was about subjecting parents to five agonizing hours watching kids 9-14 (mostly 9) run.

Organizers of the Hershey Track and Field Meet for Kids Who Would Never Otherwise be Considered Talented Enough to Run in a Real Meet Where the Starter Even Has a Pistol told us to be at the high school by 5 p.m. to register. And so we were, with Bryson and his running mates Cody, Luke and Roy. Roy was the anchor because Roy was the fastest kid on the block, and the block was all these kids knew. If you could run faster than every kid on the block, then damn, you had Olympic potential.

After checking in, the parents go over the schedule. It starts with the youngest children running the shortest distance – 50 meters. Then, after all the youngest kids sprint, there is the 1600-meter run. OK, best times in the world are three minutes and something. Joe Weekend Runner can probably make it in about 7 minutes. But a kid? That’s like a marathon. And everyone has to wait for the slowest kid. It was dawning on me – this was going to be a long long night.

About a dozen races later, Bryson would be in the 100. I continue to look down the list. 200 meters. 800 meters. 400 meters. Five heats here, three heats there, six heats down there.

Last event – the 4x100 relay.

Jeee-sus.

The races begin. Kids line up. The younger ones, the cutest ones, who look so damn adorable waiting on the start line, get their instructions from one of the officials. She explains to them the meaning of on your mark, get set and go. She points the way they should go, in case someone is confused. She has them toe the mark. The starter raises his pistol. The girls run, but there is no shot. The gun misfires (this would happen more often than not). The girls line up again. One of them starts too early. They line up again. The gun sounds. They’re off! About 45 seconds later, the last one crosses the finish line. The next group lines up …

After three races, these kids aren’t adorable. They are pains in the ass who should know what the hell “On your mark, get set, go” means, and they should not take nearly a minute to cover 50 damn meters.

The night goes on. Races get longer (and the 1600 is as much a speed bump as I predicted, the last-place finisher walking half of it, yet everyone waits patiently because we sure as hell wouldn’t want to dent her self-esteem, and when she crosses the line in 18 minutes, yes, 18 minutes, we all applaud politely even though we really want to flip her off and bitch-slap her parents) and the sun goes down and the temperature drops faster than interest in our kids’ track fortunes.

About halfway through, Bryson, Roy and Cody line up in their 100-meter heat. In watching many of the races before them, I see there are a lot of blocks that have very fast kids, and maybe our block isn’t among the fastest. Roy, our anchor, takes fourth. Bryson is fifth. Cody, well, he tries really hard, but his running style in which he moves his legs in a spiral motion – you’d think his knees were made of Jello – doesn’t lend itself to victory.

Later, the top three fastest 100 times are announced, and the winners ascend a makeshift stairstep platform where first place occupies the highest spot, and so forth.

“We’d like to direct your attention to the medals platform to award winners in the Boys 100 Meters Group 3 race,” says the lone guy in the press box, voice booming over the PA system.

Yeah, whatever, nice job, more applause from the few hundred fans (parents) trying to keep warm in the stands. The kids with the blue and red ribbons (“medals” platform my ass) hold up the letters inviting them to the next step in this amateur competition, the district meet where each city’s best will compete for a spot in the state meet.

We were now in the third hour and not halfway done. The boys took their practice baton to a grassy area on the other side of the track to practice the handoff. As more kids finish, the crowd dwindles.

Finally, at a few minutes to 10, the call comes over the PA system – “First call for Girls Group 2, Boys Group 3 and Boys Group 4 4-by-100-meter relay. Bryson, Cody, Luke and Roy sprint to the holding area and, in retrospect, had they exhibited that kind of speed in the race, they might have had a shot.

They march the entrants onto the track, but we see only five teams, one of them comprised of 9- or 10-year-old girls. One of the boys teams was clearly older Bryson and the rest, while another clearly was younger. The last looked just right.

“Looks like they’re going to run them all at the same time,” I say, and the parents within earshot nod as if to say, “God, I hope so.”

There are only a handful of fans (parents, siblings) remaining. We can see bats flitting about in the stadium lights. They outnumber us.

The runners take their marks and, sure enough, everyone is racing at the same time. The gun sounds and Cody, our leadoff, backs up since he started to run about a second before everyone else. By the time he takes off in the right direction, he’s far behind everyone else save for the girls. Because they are little girls.

Cody slows as he approaches Bryson and Bryson kind of stands there. They make the handoff like shaking hands in the middle of the street, and Bryson runs his leg, the team still ahead of the girls.

Roy makes a valiant attempt on the last leg, but he finishes a few meters behind the third-place finishers, the kids who look to be younger. Then the girls finish at some point, but I’ve lost all interest in this point.

All I can think is, “It’s finally over, let’s go.”

But no, each team walks slowly to the medals platform. The remains of the crowd gathers at the fence right in front of the stand, cheering the competitors.

“We’d like to direct your attention to the medals platform…”

Thank you for the heads-up, Pressbox Guy.

The girls hop to the top step to accept the blue ribbon in their age group and gender. Hurray little girls.

Next are the oldest boys, who are given the blue ribbon for their age group (and they actually finished first).

The other three teams then take their spots. Bryson, Luke, Cody and Roy stand proudly on the third-place spot, holding their third-place white ribbons.

“Well, the good thing is that at least they didn’t qualify for district,” I say. The parents of Luke and Roy agree. Cody’s parents chose to stay home, not a bad decision at this point (even though I couldn’t imagine not seeing this anyway, five hours or not).

But there is some discussion at the medals platform. The second-place team is returning its ribbons to an official and vacating the platform. Bryson’s team steps up to the empty spot, trading their white ribbons for red. Seems the other team won first place for their (younger) division, meaning Bryson’s team took second. Out of two teams.

“Yeah, we’re going to districts, baby!” Bryson screams as jumps off the platform, holding up his invitation letter. “Districts! That’s like the finals! We’re going all the way!”

Districts. We’re going to districts.

Hurray.